


Haven

by Clockwork Dragonfly (jirluvien)



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Character Study, Empathy, Gen, author should stop writing drunk, just think about it, no really, preslash (if you squint hard), this pairing should be explored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jirluvien/pseuds/Clockwork%20Dragonfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hisoka's abilities are too much for him to bear, there is one place for him to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an exercise - to sum up every YnM character in one paragraph. Then I decided Hisoka and Seiichiro would probably be the only normally functioning couple in the whole series. Then I was too lazy to add actual plot.
> 
> ...but this might be a prequel to said actual plot. One day.

_  
_

_Drowning._

_I 'm drowning._

 

Hisoka closed his eyes, slender fingers grasping for balance and failing. The world around him was starting to distort again; his mental shields were failing him once more. Even if he only might have seemed to rest for a moment in the lazy, early afternoon office, there was a battle going on behind his eyelids, all channels open and none censored.

 

He was no telepath, just a man cursed with extended empathy; but even so, there was so much broadcast, and sometimes he just couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t keep protecting himself, neither did he have a wish to do so anymore; and that was when he drowned, the colours of feelings bursting around him like summer fireworks, sounds not really there luring him to the oblivious minds around, and the dance of the mirages in warm air was so tempting, he could just float with them to the sky and never come back, becoming the mystery his name predicted him to be—

 

And this was why these moments were dangerous; it was so, so easy to get lost, forget where he ended and others, so better than him at the art of emotions, started. This was why he had an autopilot, a sailor searching for his anchor, a self-preservation instinct buried in the marrow of his bones, the same instinct that made him stand up and start walking, out of the noisy, exploding, ordinary and busy office and down the hall.

 

To his sanctuary.

 

He pondered, as he continued his Odyssey, the vivid images that threatened to engulf him. Even though he could not read thoughts, he still _saw_ – maybe even better without the limiting form of mere _thought_ than with it – the minds around him, bright and undivided in their never ending motion. Each of them specific, each of them explored and infinite while restricted to the time and space required for him to look. They were all distinct, and well-known to him; entities around him, uncovered in his moments of curiosity, held close and locked deep in his memory as an arcanum of someone who can see so many secrets of others without really trying. Each of them a different shape, a different taste, and he brought them up to the surface, admiring them as he walked forward, silent steps hidden in a dream world that was Meifu seen through the lenses of his full power.

 

 

Tsuzuki’s mind was an eternally spreading labyrinth of long years, twisting the sweetness of pastries eaten and seasons lived together with dark pools of pain and guilt. Venturing forward meant fighting the defences of something inhuman and made of steel and embracing the ever present tendrils of loneliness and yearning. There were splotches of endless patience of a being who’s seen too much, shining mirages of people met and lost, and a heavy, real presence of ozone and elemental strength, twelve bright gems of a bond created and a whisper of _ours_.

 

Konoe’s mind tasted fresh and well-known at the same time, splitting into leaves of a role chosen voluntarily and ending in borders carefully set. It had the quality of an average life with little pleasures and bigger concerns, a shell masterfully crafted from experience and utilised to its full potential, keeping a balance not only for its resident, but also for all those who could not, its familiar design a refuge, should it need to be.

 

Watari’s was colourful and ever-changing, a chaotic mix of bright expectations and complicated formulas, loud and always in pursuit of multiple goals. The strands of thoughts crossed in a tangle of roots leading down to a calm base under all the activity and enthusiasm; a single unbroken layer labelled simply _memories_ , tasting of chlorine like water in a swimming pool, with lines rippling along its surface in silicon patterns and bitter, distorted strokes of _Kinu, Kinu, Kinu_ all over.

 

Terazuma wasn’t just Terazuma; he was but one part of the entwined threads of human and beast, two separate balls of yarn forced to merge into a knotty mess of feelings and instincts. The scent of gunpowder and copper combined with guttural growls of something that was a weapon in itself; discipline that comes with a uniform meeting uncontrollable strength; the overwhelming urge to simply _touch_ fighting a profound, freezing fear. And still, the whole picture stood out in a strange beauty of contrast and honesty, stable and unashamed.

 

Kannuki’s was a harbour and home, spring grass and flowers in bloom under trees growing for centuries, a taste of home-made cookies and contentment of one’s favourite armchair, memories framed and displayed and fire always burning. Sounds under the surface, soft creaking of moments and change, whispered words trapped in fading patterns, _Hajime-chan,_ and the almost non-existent melancholy of things desired and denied; a mind way older than the body it was bound to.

 

 

His footsteps faltered in front of a closed door; a walk not long but somehow taking centuries as a mere dimension that time was folded before his freed conscience. But there it was, the anchor; and when his fingers reached out this time, they found what they were looking for. The door opened, and there was one more mind Hisoka’s inner eye could see: the one that brought him at least a little bit of peace.

 

 

Tatsumi’s was a stable path, a row of shelves filled with metal boxes of data. Its passages were straight and silent. Efficient. A tomb made of control, a glance behind the thin frames of unneeded glasses, clear rows of debtors and creditors of every ended life and every wasted opportunity. Even the amethyst pools of regret, glittering with feelings repressed, restricted into designated zones and so rarely spilling over into the merciless accounts. Shadows everywhere, but not an enemy or a child’s nightmare this time; faithful companions, silent guardians, eternal witnesses and rarely participants.

 

 

His arrival was followed by a steady gaze, blue eyes not betraying anything but somehow still extending invitation, and Hisoka collapsed in the chair he has occupied for so many times now, tilting his head back and allowing the smallest sigh of relief to escape his lips. This was his haven, complete with the indifferent murmur of “good afternoon, Kurosaki” and the quiet click of a cup of tea set beside his elbow eons or maybe minutes later.

 

And then there was silence.


End file.
